


The Bump and Grind Affair

by spikesgirl58



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 19:58:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon and Illya must got under cover in a strip club in order to capture a THRUSH king pin.  They will both be lucky if they make it out alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bump and Grind Affair

 The dark‑haired man concentrated on his target, aiming for the heart.  He fired as rapidly as the gun's mechanism would permit and then stood back, waiting for the man on his left to finish his own clip.

 

 The targets flew back and he pulled the protective headset off, patting a lock of brown hair into place.

               

"Tsk, tsk, Napoleon, look at that.  You're pulling to the right again."  Napoleon Solo glanced up from the study of his accuracy and over at his partner, Illya Kuryakin.  The Russian's voice was tinged with amusement, but Napoleon disregarded it.  Every few weeks, they would visit one of the local shooting ranges in the City in an effort to keep from becoming too familiar with UNCLE’s own shooting range.

 

"Huh...always works for me in golf."

 

 "Perhaps you should yell 'Fore' the next time a THRUSH is bearing down on you."  Illya yanked out the spent clip from his Walther P‑38 and replaced it with a fresh one.  "If you could only shoot the way you dance."

 

 "If you could only dance the way you shoot," Napoleon amended, replenishing his own ammo and slipping the protective headgear back into place.

 

Just as he was preparing to fire his next round, a light tap to his shoulder drew his attention. He wasn't startled; his finely tuned inner sense would have picked up a truly dangerous foe.  Still, the face that was regarding him was that of a stranger's.

                               

Napoleon watched the man's lips form 'Mr. Solo' and he immediately removed the headgear.

 

“Yes?"

 

"You've got a phone call in the main office.  He told me to tell you it's your uncle."

 

Napoleon sighed and nodded.  "I'll be right there.  Thank you very much."

 

He waited for Illya to finish his round and lightly punched a shoulder.  The agent turned, the blue eyes questioning the action even as he was pulling off his ear protection.

               

"Home, James," Napoleon pointed to an exit.  “Our uncle wants us.”

 

 

 

"All I want to know," Illya muttered as they exited from the taxicab and walked towards Del Floria's Cleaners,   "is why nothing ever happens while we're chained to our desks and the first day off we get is shot to he..."

 

"Oh, I don't know," Napoleon interrupted, nodding to Floria.  "Have you seen the new brunette in Files?"  He made the appropriate gestures for her figure and Del grinned as the two walked into a fitting booth.  It would seem strange to a casual customer that both men were entering the same booth, but Del was careful to keep as few customers in the shop as possible.  Certainly his business would have crumbled into nothingness by now except that he had a very well paying renter beyond those curtains.

               

"Try and control your animal instincts, Napoleon.  This is an office, not a night club."  Illya was suitably affronted, possibly more by the fact that he hadn't seen the new brunette in Files.  He pulled the curtain shut after him and Napoleon maneuvered the third hook.  The wall swung wide and Illya blinked at the sudden light.

               

"That's another thing.  Why do they make it so bright in here?"

 

"Well, Illya, old man," Napoleon said, giving him a playful shove forward.  "If you and Johnny Walker hadn't gotten so close last night..."

 

"Now I am insulted!  Me, drink whiskey?"  Illya snorted at the thought and raked a handful of blond hair up off his wide forehead.  He took the offered yellow Securities badge from the receptionist and pinned it on.  "It was Comrade Vodka."

_"Pardon moi, mon ami_."  Napoleon waited for the woman to pin his badge onto his lapel and followed the impatiently waiting Russian.  "Besides, I've always suspected you to be part vampire. I mean, look at you."  Napoleon gestured to the man's usual outfit of black turtleneck, jacket and pants. "All you need is a cape.  Even the accent is right."

               

 Illya smiled at that.  "Come on, Napoleon, haven't you ever heard of black Russians?"

 

 Napoleon groaned, trailing off as they approached the office of Alexander Waverly, the head of UNCLE ‑ North America. Napoleon quickly checked his own suit jacket for any offending lint or wrinkles before venturing in.  Unlike his partner, he preferred a groomed, controlled appearance. With a final tug to his tie, he gestured Illya onward.

 

Alexander Waverly, pipe in hand, looked up from the report that was spread in front of him.

 

"Good, Mr. Solo and. Mr… Kuryakin."  The Russian's name loved to elude him.  This was particularly embarrassing since the man was one of his top agents.   "I'm sorry to have ruined your day off, but I have a little something here that might interest you."

 

Both men sank into their usual chairs at Waverly's nod and waited until the circular table was spun around to them. Napoleon picked up the UNCLE folder and took out the inner papers.

 

"The stock market report?"  Illya reached into a pocket for his glasses.  He slipped them on before opening his own folder.

 

"Yes, Mr. Kuryakin.  Are either of you familiar with how the stock market operates?"

               

 "Just the basics," Illya responded.  "A stock is a proprietorship element in a corporation that's divided into shares.  The owner of these shares then has an interest in the corporate assets, earnings, and usually has voting privileges.  Anything else is too capitalistic for me to understand."  Illya slumped in his chair, frowning as he studied the columns of numbers.

               

 Napoleon made a face at him and turned his attention back to an obviously amused Waverly.  Apparently, he hadn't expected Illya to be the one to have supplied that information.  "Smart Russian,” Napoleon muttered.  “The stock market is a common ground in which you can buy and sell stock.  The whole point of playing the market is to buy a stock low, hold onto it until it goes up in price and then sell at a profit."

 

 "And if someone buys a majority of a certain stock?"  Waverly removed his pipe from his mouth and began to repack the bowl with fresh tobacco.

               

 "They would have a controlling vote in that company, as well as being able to hold them hostage by the threat of company takeover."  Illya kept studying the figures to hide his own uncertainty with the situation.

 

"Precisely, Mr. Kuryakin, and it would appear that THRUSH is attempting to get bullish."

                               

"Bullish?” Illya asked, glancing up over the top of his glasses first at Waverly and then at his partner.

 

“It means to make the prices in the market rise, through artificial means, usually due to a rumor. In response, the share prices go up and the holder can sell sometimes at a substantial profit. The opposite reaction is being bearish, driving the prices low so that you can pick up stock at a ridiculous price," Napoleon supplied Illya with the definition, pleased that there were still some aspects of America that the Russian remained unfamiliar with.  "Sir, THRUSH is playing the stock market now?"

 

"With an unfortunate result, Mr. Solo.  They would appear to be buying up all the existing stock for Rolm chemical."

 

"Rolm?  Isn't that the place that's working on that new line of explosives?"  Illya perked up at the change in topic.  Chemicals and explosives were more within his line of expertise.

 

"Yes, something to keep those commie bast…."  Napoleon trailed off and offered his Russian partner a sly smile, letting him know his mistake was in jest.  "I mean, those foreign powers wary of us."

 

Illya grunted at Napoleon, but didn't say anything for the moment, concentrating his attention on Waverly. "Sir, from what I understand, THRUSH isn't doing anything illegal. Unethical perhaps, but it's something I'd expect from them.  As long as they aren't printing their own money to buy the stuff, we don't have much of a handle to grab."

               

“What we are afraid of is what THRUSH plans to do, should it become a ruling stockholder in the company.  They could use their influence to refuse certain contracts, use the company for their own benefit, and have a legal front for their international terrorism."

               

Illya nodded in agreement and tugged off his glasses. "And what does UNCLE suggest as a course of action in to prevent this, sir?

 

 Waverly reached for a toggle switch and maneuvered it to lower a projector screen.  He then turned on a projector, focusing it up on a photograph of a woman. Immediately, Napoleon was all attention, studying the face with a practiced eye.  She was not a particularly handsome woman ‑ a hardening of the eyes and mouth drew what early beauty there had been away and left behind a cool business‑like expression.

 

"Meet Madam Helena Sansoval."

                               

"The owner of the Women Only club, sir?"  Napoleon matched name and face.

               

"What is that?  Some sort of fashion boutique?" Neither the photo nor subsequent information of her identity shed any light for Illya.

 

"Not exactly.  It's a strip joint ‑ for women only." Napoleon spoke over his shoulder to the man.

               

"Not them too?  Whatever happened to the innocent, virginal, shy maiden that we were supposed to sweep away upon our gallant steed?"  Illya shook his head ruefully and he pulled off his glasses.

               

"They went out about the same time as fire breathing dragons, my friend.  And you call me boorish.   Sir, what does this have to do with THRUSH?"

               

 "Madam Sandoval is one of the primary holders of Rolm stock. She has never played the market before two months ago when she started buying up huge shares of Rolm stock."

               

 "And you suspect a connection."

 

"Preliminary reports can't find one and that is what you and Mr. Kuryakin are to find out.  To discover whether this is a THRUSH plot or mere coincidence."

 

 "Ah, sir," Napoleon exchanged a look with Illya before pointing out the obvious.  "Her place is off limits to men."

 

 "Except for employees, Mr. Solo and there just happens to be an opening."

 

Napoleon drew himself up, already picturing himself as the newest heartthrob of the club, a rival to the other younger, less mature, far less cultured men.

               

"The opening is for a blond, Mr. Solo."  The gesture was not lost on Waverly, nor was Illya's opened‑mouth expression of dismay.  "Now, before you panic, Mr. Kuryakin, it is a position for a waiter.  You'll not have to disrobe in from of anyone, not even in the line of duty."  Mr. Waverly rose slightly and picked up a suit box from a chair. "Here is your uniform, such as it is.  Perhaps you'd like to go down to Section 8 and try it on."

                               

 "Not particularly," Illya muttered, but the man obediently rose and accepted the box.  He knew better than to protest Mr. Waverly's decision too loudly.

 

"And what about me, sir?" Napoleon asked as Illya walked from the room.

               

"You, Mr. Solo, will do what you do best.  You will concentrate on the woman herself.  Woo her, Mr. Solo, make her tell you her secrets."

               

 "She doesn't look like the easily charmed type, sir.  Besides, if she's in with THRUSH, won’t she be likely to recognize me?"

               

 "Exactly, Mr. Solo, and that may focus her attention on you, permitting Mr. Kuryakin the advantage, if she is truly working for THRUSH in her strip palace."

               

Napoleon cleared his throat to hide his grin.  "If she's not?"

 

"You will attempt to find out where and if there is a connection.  I'm certain you can be convincing enough to achieve that information with little effort.”

 

"I shall certainly do my best, sir," Napoleon said, rising to leave.

 

"Perhaps you should also pay a visit to Section 8, Mr. Solo," Waverly murmured, his mind already concentrating on a new assignment.  "And Mr. Solo?"

 

“Sir?"

 

“Please try to keep Mr. Kuryakin out of trouble this time."

 

At the thought, Napoleon smiled warmly at his superior.  "I think that's an excellent idea, sir."

 

 

 

 As Napoleon wandered down the bleak concrete and steel corridors of UNCLE headquarters to Section 8, his mind was awash with evil thoughts.     The doors slid back on his approach and he grinned at the sound of Illya's mournful protest.

               

 "There has to be a piece missing!  I can't go around like this.  I'll catch cold!  And possibly be arrested for indecent exposure."

 

 Napoleon walked in, not surprised to see so many Section 8 women crowded into the room and obviously so attentive to Illya's plight.

                                               

"No, sir, that is the entire costume.”  A sleek brunette seemed more interested in her clipboard than the Russian.  "Mr. Kuryakin, if you'd please... we have to get to the next stage."

               

 "Come on, Illya," Napoleon coaxed.  Unlike the women, who were obviously interested, but unable to look behind the screen because of good taste and modesty, Napoleon had no such compunctions and walked around the dressing divider and stopped in his tracks.

               

 "Good night, nurse!"  Napoleon was dumbfounded.  "You **are** missing a piece of something."

 

“I told you!  Napoleon, please…”             

                               

 He stuck his head back out.  "Ah… ladies, would you excuse us please?"  He made a waving motion with his hand, and begrudgingly, the room emptied of all non-essential females.  Napoleon motioned to Illya.  The one remaining Section 8 woman barely looked up from her clipboard as Illya dared to ventured out.  She glanced up and nodded, then returned to her clipboard.

               

"Good, they fit," she murmured, making a note.

               

"Like a second skin." Illya protested, running a finger around the tight fitting waistband of the black satin pants.  “If I sneeze, it’s game over.”

 

“I like the chains," Napoleon put in, fingering one of the silver lengths of chain that provided the outer seam of the pants. "It adds a certain aura to your mystique, old man." Illya pulled away from him, scowling.

               

 Whatever her feelings were, the woman kept them carefully to herself as she asked, "What about the boots?  I don't want you to get blisters or fallen arches."  The pencil came to rest and she looked up to meet Illya's blue‑eyed glare.

 

 "They fit fine.  They're the most comfortable part of the outfit, except for the chain on them.  I'll jingle when I walk. Can we tighten them up?"  He rattled one boot to emphasize the noise.   "It could put a serious crimp in my stealth."

 

“Sounds painful," Napoleon quipped, only to be ignored.

 

  “I'll make a note of it."  She did.  "What about the collar?  We've built a communicator into it."  She rose and slipped her fingers along the metal‑studded strip of leather until she reached one stud in particular. "Depress it and you can talk.  The one on the opposite side will act as the receiver; it's designed to be quiet, so don't let that worry you."

               

"All that should worry him is that someone might clip a leash to him and try to talk him for a walk," Napoleon tried again.  This time the woman spun with an expression of exasperation on her face.

               

"Mr. Solo!"  The lab coat rustled with impatience.  "If you keep interrupting, you shall wait in the hall."

 

"Well, it does look like something you'd find on a Doberman or pit bull."

 

"Funny, Napoleon.  I hope you go prematurely gray or bald."

 

"Enough talk.  I need you in cubical five, Mr. Kuryakin.  Strip and put on the robe you find there.  I'll be right along."  At Napoleon's teasing wink, she shook her head wearily.  "Mr. Solo, you do deserve your reputation, don't you?"  She threw him a plastic sheet.  "You're in number seven.  Put that on...over your clothes."

 

 "She knows you too well, my friend,"  Illya teased as he walked back with Napoleon, readjusting his pants with each step, ignoring the protesting tinkle of the chains from the boots.

               

 "That's what happens with us gadabouts."

 

 "Oh, gads."  Illya paused by the door.  "I don't suspect you'll be here when I get out.  Good luck."

               

 "You too.  I'll see you there."  Napoleon slapped Illya's back affectionately.  "You make sure and watch Miss Brent.”  He nodded after the tech.  “You know how the quiet shy ones are."

               

"I'll be careful."

 

 

               

Napoleon Solo leaned back in the seat of his car and played with various courses of action.  Madam Sansoval was not the type of woman one could entrap with kind, flattering words and false promises, nor was she likely to be the type that went for red roses and diamond bracelets.  No, he'd definitely have to approach her on a professional level and hope that he was her type.

               

 He patted his pocket, the feeling of the wallet and false ID building a warm glow in the pit of his stomach. He flipped down the eye patch over his left eye, checked his silvered hair in the rear view mirror and climbed from the car.   The woman behind the desk regarded him with a look that bordered on _ennui_.  "I'm sorry, but the position has been filled."  Despite her boredom, she was obviously finding the eye patch and this man's obvious self-confidence intriguing

               

 "I'm not here to apply for a job, I am, however, flattered that you should think I might be qualified for a position with your exemplary company.  Rather I am here to see Madam Sansoval.  Thank you."  Napoleon's easy smile was confident.

 

"Do you have an appointment, Mr.?"

                               

 "Solo, Napoleon Solo.  No, I'm afraid I don't, but I think she'll find a moment to grant me some of her time. I'm from the Securities and Exchange Commission and I'm here to discuss her recent purchases of Rolm stock."

               

"Thank you, Mr. Solo, if you'll have a seat?"  She gestured him to a comfortable looking black leather chair and reached for the phone.  "Madam, I'm sorry to disturb you, but there's a gentleman here from the Securities and Exchange Commission...yes, Madam, he mentioned that...no, Madam ...thank you, Madam...”  She smiled over at Napoleon, shaking her auburn hair back.  "If you'd follow me, sir?"

               

She led him down a corridor, past a room whose open door revealed a group of scantily dressed men, some lounging, some obviously going through warm‑up routines.  If Illya had been concerned over his outfit, he'd have had heart failure if asked to don one of these.

               

"My word!"  Napoleon let himself sound astonished, as would be befitting a man of his supposed years.  The ensuing double‑take allowed him to get a better view of the room, but even that did not reveal his partner to him.

               

"Those are some of the dancers for our nightly performance, Mr. Solo."  The receptionist smiled at the man's shocked expression.  "You could ask Madam for comps, if you'd like. We do have private viewing booths, since men are not allowed on the show floor except to work."

               

"Thank you, I might just do that.  It would be interesting to see things from the other side."  Napoleon looked back over his shoulder, shaking his head.  "How much does a place like this make?"

               

"Oh, we have our fast and slow nights, of course. Business has been really good lately.  It's become quite vogue to bring your sister, friends, mothers‑in‑law in.  We seem to be quite the place for bridal showers."

               

They halted before a padded black leather door and the secretary pushed on a recessed button.  Obligingly, the panel swung open and she stepped through and to one side.

               

"Mr. Napoleon Solo of the Securities and Exchange Commission," she announced.

               

 As Napoleon entered, she retreated, closing the door behind her with a slight whoosh of air that played with Napoleon's pant cuffs.  He looked after the woman for a moment before turning his attention to the main purpose for his presence.

 

The swivel chair turned and the woman from Waverly’s slide looked at him, her face and manner even more severe than her photo.  "Mr. Solo," she said in a professional tone.  If she noticed the eye patch, steel gray hair, or pencil thin moustache, her expression refused to register it.

               

"Madam Sansoval."  Napoleon came forward in a fast, sharp bow.  "A pleasure to meet you.  Your recent purchases have made you quite the talk of our little company."

 

“The Securities and Exchange Commission?  A little company?" The woman clasped her hands before her.  "You have an interesting way of expressing yourself."  She gestured to a chair.  "Won't you take a seat?"

 

“Thank you.  I'm just ensuing a healthy business attitude," Napoleon assured, sliding into the Corinthian leather chair with an air of grace and assuredness.  "One must keep himself in the proper prospective.”

               

"I am incredibly proud of my achievements, but I am certain you are not here for a social visit."  She rose and Napoleon immediately recognized her dress as a Paris original.  She could have been a few pounds lighter, he noted as she walked towards a small bar, again, padded with the prevalent black leather.

               

"A drink, Mr. Solo?  Martini?"

 

"Thank you."

 

With a skill born from much practice, Madam Sansoval measured out vermouth and gin into a shaker.

 

"Dry?" she asked, pausing in her movement.

 

  "Very.  Allow the vermouth to just breathe on it."  Napoleon smiled, rising to take the martini glass from her a moment later.   He sipped delicately and closed his eye in pleasure.  "Ah, perfection.  You are the first woman I've found who makes a good martini.  Your husband must be a happy man."

               

The harsh mouth softened at the praise.  "Thank you, Mr. Solo, but I'm not married.  Men find it difficult to deal with a woman who has too much business savvy.   Now, about your business?"

                               

"Ah yes, we at the Securities and Exchange Commission have noticed that quite a bit of Rolm stock is being purchased by you."

               

"That's not against the law, is it?” she asked, her tone mildly mocking as she sipped her own martini.                                     

"No, not yet, but we were curious as to what your motives might be."

               

 "Motives, Mr. Solo?  You make me sound like a scheming criminal.  I just happened to notice that Rolm stock had dipped to its lowest point in several years.  My business has been making a substantial amount of money, so I invested some of in Rolm stock on the advice of a very trusted friend."  Napoleon made a mental note, wondering if this very trusted friend might be the type to fly away at a moment's notice as the woman continued, "My only motives entail hoping to drive the price up so that I can sell at a profit...just like any stock buyer.  With the new governmental contract they just picked up, I refuse to believe the stock will fall lower."

               

"And that's it?  No greenmailing?  No planned take over?"

 

"Good word, Mr. Solo, you must think me mad," she laughed as she poured herself a second martini and offered to refill Napoleon's glass.  "I've got enough money to keep me happy for the rest of my life, a thriving business to keep me busy and enough alcohol to keep me warm."

 

"A handsome woman like you shouldn't need to rely on alcohol for that," Napoleon permitted his most polished tone to kick in, along with a sincere smile.  It truly amazed him how well that smile worked with women.

               

"Don't feel the need to be gallant, Mr. Solo. I'm used to all the lines by now.  In fact, I'm even growing to appreciate the solitude ‑ no game playing that way."

               

"Like myself, I suppose."  Napoleon sipped his drink. "So many women find my inability to gaze deeply into their eyes with two of my own unsatisfactory at best. With an entire club like this one to choose from, in which the men are such exceptional candidates for the gene pool, I, alas, wouldn't stand much of a chance."

               

"I find your 'disability' rather distinguishing."

 

"Thank you, Madam.  Most women don’t share your view.  They find me…flawed and sadly lacking."

 

"Helena, please."

 

"Thank you, Helena."  Napoleon acknowledged, the warmth generating from his smile matching that of his gaze.  "Well, I've taken up enough of your valuable time.  I'll let myself out."  Napoleon rose gracefully and walked to the door.

               

"Mr. Solo?"  He paused, his hand outstretched for the knob.

 

It seemed as though the woman was thinking over the possible outcome of her question and then decided to press on. "If you still have some question remaining as to my stock purchases, I shall be glad to discuss them with you...perhaps tonight?  Over drinks in the club?  Or do you think me too forward?"

               

Napoleon looked down at his three‑piece business suit. "Wouldn't that be slightly awkward?  I don't necessarily fit in with the regular crowd.  The sign on the door makes it very clear that this is not a place for a man such as myself."

 

"There are private booths available.  Come to the door and ask for Booth One. They will bring you to me.  Will you come?  Please?"

               

 Napoleon bit his tongue before he could pick up on the innuendo.  "It would be an inexcusable crime for me to refuse."  Napoleon bowed low to her, taking her hand in his and kissing the back of it softly.  "Until tonight.... Helena."

               

"At eight...Napoleon."

 

 

               

Once he cleared the club, Napoleon slipped unobserved into a convenient alley and dug out his communicator.

               

 "Open Channel D.  Can you talk, Illya?"

 

 "Yes at the present moment.  How did your meeting go?" Illya Kuryakin glanced around, hoping to appear as if he were merely toying with his collar.

               

 "I have a date with Madam Sansoval tonight...at the club.  As terrible as this sounds she seems desperate for a little personal attention.  All that money and she's so lonely."

               

"Money doesn't buy happiness, Napoleon.  Are you planning some horrible devious actions, such as sneaking through a bathroom window or do you plan on letting your hair grow and shooting up some hormones?  I'm afraid you wouldn't quite fit in with the regulars.  Then and again, nor do I ‑ not really."

               

"Funny, son.  Have you found out anything?"

 

"You mean besides how many of these men aren't as interested in women as they are their fellow employees?  I’ve haven’t been groped this much since the last time we were tackled by a cheerleading squad.”

 

“I remember that – good times.  So, nothing new?”

 

“No, nothing at all."  His acute hearing picked up a faint noise. "Got to go.  I'll see you tonight."  He snatched up a nearby phone receiver.                                                               

                               

 A similarly‑dressed man poked his head around the corner, frowning.  "Oh, I thought I heard you talking to someone."

               

 Illya replaced the phone receiver. "My stock broker, isn't that all right?  They didn't say anything about personal calls when I was hired."

 

 "They don't really care as long as they are short and sweet.  We're about ready to open for Happy Hour.  Do you think you're up to it?"

 

 "Happy hour for us or them?"  Illya adjusted his collar.  "They don't bite…do they?"

               

 "Only if you're lucky.”  He winked.  “ Just keep out of hands' reach. The ladies love to stuff their tips down the front of your pants.  It's the chains, it makes them animals.  It's not too bad, once you get used to walking around with a bunch of money stuffed down your crotch.  Of course, for some it helps flesh out certain areas, but you don’t seem to have a problem with that.  Just the opposite..."

 

 "I get the idea," Illya grunted and began to count the hours to quitting time.

               

 

 

 

 Napoleon Solo straightened his tie and checked his silvered hair one last time. Too much was riding on him tonight to have him blow it on appearance.  He'd been an UNCLE agent far too long for that.  For this event, he'd even acquired a soft‑brush, black velvet tux, with a matching eye patch.

               

He tapped on the inner black leather door and a small peephole slid back.

               

"Yes?"

               

"I'm here to see Madam Sansoval in Booth One please."  Napoleon hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.

 

 The peephole closed and the leather door swung open, revealing a man clad in an outfit similar to Illya’s, save the black bow tie that replaced the metal‑studded collar.   "Very good.  She is expecting you.  If you'll follow me, please?"

 

"I'd be delighted to, young man.  If you don’t mind me asking, isn’t it very difficult to walk in those?"  He pointed to the boots.  They had higher heels than the ones Illya had been sporting.

 

“Not once you get used to them, sir.”

 

 Napoleon trailed after him, suddenly feeling very out of place, very old and pitifully out of shape.  He knew he was in good condition, a recent physical verified that, but compared to the semi-naked men who moved gracefully around the tables, he seemed a sad excuse for manhood.  The women obviously very much approved of the dress code though and reached out to fondle anyone who got within range.

 

He studied the crowd until his eye picked out a familiar set of shoulders much more tan than when Napoleon had seen them that afternoon, but unmistakably those of Illya Kuryakin.

 

Napoleon smiled as Illya sidestepped a reaching hand with a practiced move.  Even under normal circumstances, women flocked to his partner like moths to a flame ‑ he'd be beating them off by the end of the evening. He watched the man move, the deeper hue of his skin complimenting the lighter shade of his blond hair. It was obvious that all that existed beneath the black satin and chain pants was 100% imported Russian.

               

As they past closer to his partner, Napoleon's trained ear caught a woman's voice.

 

"All those scars, dear, are you into S&M?"

 

Napoleon smiled as they moved out of earshot before the comeback to that but Napoleon made a mental note to ask later ‑ preferably at an inopportune moment.

 

 

 

Illya noted Napoleon's passing with little flair.  He was far too busy keeping himself a safe distance from the woman.  He'd already been fondled, groped, and pinched enough tonight to last him a lifetime.  Even worse, he'd not yet had a chance to look around.  For a place like this, security seemed tight ‑ too tight not to indicate something.  His carefully honed spy instinct told him that he needed to do some serious ratting later on.   As soon as the strip show started, the waiters were pulled from the floor until Intermission.  That would give him the opportunity he needed… if he could shake off a couple of the waiters that seemed to be paying extra close attention to him.

                               

A similarly clad man approached him, carrying a tray beneath an arm.  "We've only got about four more minutes before the show starts.  It'll give you a chance to get back to the dressing room and assess the damage before the second show.  How have tips been?”

 

“Uncomfortable.”

 

“That’s what you get for looking the way you do. At least it’ll give you a chance to retrieve your tips, as it were.”  The man’s gaze went straight for Illya’s crotch and the Russian frowned.

 

“What do you mean?  If you think I would walk around with money stuffed there and risk the chance of paper cuts, you’re deluded.”

 

“That’s all you then?”  The smile grew.  “Well, that’s just… keen.”

 

 "If you like the sort."  Illya smiled faintly at the man and walked away.

               

Illya weaved his way towards the back of the floor and the small break room there.   Wearily, he sank into a chair and reached up to his collar.  No, he'd better let Napoleon make contact with him.  If he were with Madam Sansoval now, a bleeping communicator might be a bit difficult to explain. Illya would have to rely on himself for back‑up.

               

 A flourish of music sounded faintly and Illya rose stiffly.  He'd had more exercise tonight than in his entire time at the UNCLE training center.  Carrying drink-laden trays was harder than it looked and keeping them from tipping as some woman caressed intimate parts of your body was even harder.  They should really put something like this in as an obstacle course, but knowing Napoleon, he'd spend all his time there.

               

 

Carefully, so as not to attract attention, Illya made his way towards the basement.  He might as well start from the bottom up.   He crept down the staircase softly, keeping his weight towards his toes to keep his heels from clicking against the concrete floor.  Nothing seemed to quiet the jingle of the chain, possibly a device to keep non‑THRUSH employees out of harm's way. He descended into the stairwell until he could get a view beyond the wall and he smiled grimly.

 

The basement was finished in early THRUSH, he decided as he viewed the sophisticated computer and its dozen components against a far wall.  Either that or Madam Sansoval kept her computers in a strange place.

 

 He hurried down the few remaining stairs and over to the machine, attempting to decipher the face of the computer.  With a bit of luck, he might be able to disable it or even re‑program it.  Then a tingling down the back of his neck sent him spinning and he was suddenly face-to-face with two rifle-carrying women.

 

“Now what have we here?”

 

 “I took a wrong turn?” Illya smiled hopefully.

 

“Try again, sweetie.”

 

“I have a feeling that this is going to end badly no matter what I say.”  Illya raised his hands over his head.

 

“You got that right, sweet cheeks.  I'll take heads, you take tails," instructed the first woman

 

“I had tails last time," protested the second.  "Heads is more fun, but this one has a very nice… tail."

 

“It doesn't really matter, I suppose." She indicated a direction with the tip of her rifle.  "I think he'll hold out for both." 

 

Illya’s brow furrowed and his smile weakened at the feral look on their faces.  Suddenly, he wasn’t quite sure this had been his best idea.

 

 

 

"So what do you think, dear Napoleon?"  Madam Sansoval sipped at her champagne delicately, her eyes never leaving Napoleon's face as he studied the dancers from within the darkened, glass fronted and soundproof booth.  The music and shouts from the crowd were piped in through a speaker in the ceiling and Napoleon found it a bit disconcerting.

 

“How do you get them to do... that?" Napoleon asked as if truly puzzled.  Admittedly, it would be quite a rush to strip practically naked before an enthusiastic and extremely vocal bunch of woman, but he couldn't imagine himself doing it for a living.  He was okay with his body, but a man had to know his limits.

 

"The same way you get women to, I suppose," Madam glanced out uninterested at the performer, before setting her glass back onto the small black lacquered table around which the seats curled.  "You find the extroverts and pay them enough to keep them.  The truly good strippers know how to ride the audience like a wave.  They keep the women on the edge of their seats until they can no longer stand it.  I suspect we've improved more than one marriage along the way."

 

Napoleon looked at the woman and smiled, raising his glass to her in a salute.  "All that embodied energy shouldn't go to waste," he said, selecting his words carefully.

 

"Some nights, I know how they feel.  Other nights, I come away with a hollow, empty feeling."

 

Napoleon Solo had spent practically all his life learning to read women, knowing just when the right moment was to move and this was his cue.  He slid closer to woman and embraced her.  "I'm hoping tonight isn’t one of the former," he murmured and waited for her to start a reply before kissing her sensuously, using just the tip of his tongue to caress her lips.

 

The woman moaned and he deepened the kiss, pushing her down against the black velvet cushion of the booth, using the leverage of his body to gain the upper hand without domination.  He sensed this woman didn’t want to be dominated as much as she just craved the physicality of another person.

 

For her part, Madam Sansoval was putting up little resistance to the hands and mouth that were roaming her body.  Napoleon broke the kiss, pulling back from her slightly, smiling at the disappointed look that flashed in her hazel eyes.  "I need to know, Helena.  If you want me to stop, you need to say it now," he said, pausing to kiss her neck up to her earlobe.  "Tell me now, for in another few moments, there will be no stopping."

 

Helena reached up and entwined her hands in his hair, pulling his mouth back down to hers and arching her body against him.  Napoleon mentally chalked another conquest up. From here, it would be downhill all the way... well maybe not exactly downhill ‑ there was a definite lack of operating space within the small booth.  It reminded him of trying to make love in his Jag, a condition usually ending with a blowjob as opposed to the long slow bout of lovemaking that he preferred.  His back was going to hate him in the morning, of that much he was certain.

 

He slid his hand along her thigh, massaging and caressing his way closer and closer.  He was a little startled to discover a garter belt and lack of panties, but it also amused him.  Madam Sansoval was a woman who obviously came prepared.

 

He let his fingers dip between the lips of her labia to stroke an anticipatory clitoris, the skin slick and anxious for his attentions.   With a little careful maneuvering, he managed to get a bit more room, but it was still awkward.  By the time he finally entered her, the woman was in such a peak of excitement it he took him just a few thrusts to make her climax.  He, on the other hand, took just a bit longer.  For her part, Helena Sansoval didn't seem to mind in the least, climaxing at least twice more before Napoleon allowed himself to.

 

She laid there in his arms, smiling softly up at him, a velvety calm over her features.  "That was lovely, Napoleon, thank you," she whispered.

 

"Thank you, dear lady," Napoleon murmured.  It hadn't been the first time he'd had to seduce a woman at UNCLE's command and Helena Sansoval wouldn't be the last, but he felt guilt at her appreciation. “Imagine what it would be like in a real bed.”

 

A soft tap at the door drew their attention and Madam Sansoval had to clear her throat before speaking.  "I don't wish to be disturbed."

 

"But it's important, Madam, there’s been a breach of Securities."

 

"What?"  The woman's attitude changed as she sat up and moved to the door.  Napoleon used the time to pull up his pants and adjust them before the door was opened and light was admitted in.  The guard, if he saw anything wrong, chose to keep his comments to himself.  He leaned forward and whispered something into Sansoval's ear.

                                               

She clicked her tongue and nodded. "I'll be right along.  Thank you." She patted the back of Napoleon's hand. "I must be off for a moment or two, my dear Napoleon.  I've got a pressing engagement.  Relax and enjoy the rest of the show and I shall be back as soon as possible."

 

Napoleon kissed her hand before releasing it, his lips promising more than his words.  "All right, if you must. Please, don't be any longer than you have to.  I don't want to lose a moment of your time."

 

Sansoval smiled and fairly glided from the booth, leaving Napoleon feeling like a second-class heel for the ruse he was pulling.  His inner voice was also telling him that her 'pressing engagement' was with a blond Russian, especially since he'd long since lost sight of the man on the club floor.

 

He gave himself a full count of ten before exiting the booth and glancing around, finally locating a nearby waiter...guard?  Certainly had the muscles for it, Napoleon decided and he did his best to appear non‑threatening.  "Excuse me, but where are the facilities?"

               

"There aren't any for us out here.  You'll have to go in the back to the employees lounge."  He pointed towards a curtained doorway.

 

 "Which is?"

 

 "Left, second door."

 

"Thank you."  Napoleon smiled and moved off in the prescribed direction, dawdling along the way. When he was sure he'd shaken the man's attention, he moved to the office entrance of the club.   It was darkened and Napoleon had only his earlier visit that day to guide his steps.  He squatted by the door and flipping his eye patch up, he removed the tiny lock pick hidden in it and jimmied the office door.           

               

 Quickly, with an efficiency born from much practice, he searched the room, finally locating the wall safe behind a section of the bookcase.  Napoleon reached into a pocket and drew out a small device that resembled a cigarette lighter. Setting it against the metal, he began to spin the dial.   A small light blinked on as he reached the first number of the combination.

                               

 _What a killing I could make on the market with this_ , he thought as he continued on until four lights glowed red and he knew the safe was open.  Bound together inside were several stocks, with a note attached to the top.

               

"Deliver to T. Central." Napoleon mused out loud.  "Could be a stock broker…could be a bank.  Could be The Hierarchy itself.  Better be safe.  If she's any kind of a business woman, she'll have plenty of insurance."

 

This time he went for his wallet, lifting out a piece of innocent looking paper.  He carefully piled the stocks on top of it.  A small disk from the back of his watch was the next step.  Napoleon bent it in half, cracking open the capsule inside and shaking it to encourage the chemical it held to begin its work.  He shoved it between the stocks and the piece of paper.  Once the chemical ate through the disk and hit the specially treated paper, very little would stop the fire it started.

               

That should give him time to find Illya and get out.  Illya... now, where would they be likely to be holding the Russian?  Napoleon pondered upon this as he swiftly made his way from the room.  He cracked the door open, glanced around and hurried out into the safety of the hallway.

 

 

 

 A splash of cold water brought Illya to groggy consciousness, but his neck seemed to have a will of its own, staunchly refusing to support his throbbing head. Still, considering how big his head felt, he didn't argue with his neck's decision.

 

Eventually, he got his head up and he blinked at the light until things stopped wavering and took some sort of solid shape, then he had no trouble focusing his attention.  He was strung upright , spread eagle,  on a wooden rack

 

 Two women stood before him, each wearing jumpsuits and large smiles.  One lowered a bucket, obviously having used the water to revive him.  The other, not quite as dark featured as the first, crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing and making Illya feel most uncomfortable in his present position, tied spread eagle against a wood frame.

 

“You passed out.  I thought you’d be made of sterner stuff.”

 

“Tasers have a way of making me pass out,” Illya said, tugging at his arms in a futile attempt to break loose.

 

A third woman arrived, older than the others, her hands fluttering about her face and hair like a bird working on a nest.

 

Madam Sansoval, obviously;  Illya recognizing the symptoms of one of Napoleon's conquests.

 

 "Monica, Chris, what do we have here?"  Madam Sansoval murmured, her mind apparently somewhere else.  She walked up to the Russian and regarded him coolly.  "Now, you wouldn't happen to be from UNCLE, would you?"

 

"Whose uncle?" Illya muttered, trying to buy time as he struggled against the ropes that bound his wrists and ankles.  "I was just looking for a place to grab a smoke. I'm a waiter here."

 

 "This 'waiter'," interrupted the dark‑haired woman, "was poking around the computer room, Madam.   An identity check verifies him as Illya Kuryakin, Section 2, No. 2, UNCLE.  So far, he hasn’t said anything, although…”  She held up the taser and poked it towards the Russian.  He involuntarily flinched away from the instrument.  “It hasn’t been from lack of trying.  I think we are making some progress.  We just haven’t found his weak spot…yet.”

 

"What made you think that you could take on THRUSH, Mr. Kuryakin?"  Madam Sansoval was still preoccupied.

 

"Just call me Don Quixote.  I've always been one for tackling impossible tasks." Illya gave up on feigned ignorance and kept his attention focused straight ahead, his blue‑eyed gaze carefully neutral.  “You should know that by now.”

               

"Well, let's see how you tackle death. You can have him, girls.  Make it long, drawn out and extremely unpleasant.  I have some of my own business to attend to."

 

The two younger women exchanged looks and began to beam with grins that sent chills down Illya's spine.

 

“Not to worry, Madam, he'll love every minute of it. Perhaps a change of action is needed."   Monica reached into her hip pocket and drew out something slender and cylindrical ‑ it looked almost like Illya's communicator, something he desperately wished he had at the moment.

 

"That's good, have fun and don’t play nice. He doesn’t deserve it."  Madam Sansoval practically floated from the room and Illya found himself hoping that Napoleon had a premature ejaculation.  That would serve her right.

 

Chris, the taller of the two, approached him slowly and used the tip of the cylinder to trace designs on his skin.  Illya closed his eyes, preparing himself for the first wash of Pentathol, or whatever truth serum he was sure was in the tube to be injected, but when there was no pinprick in his bicep, no pinch of injected muscle, he cautiously opened his eyes and looked uncertainly at the women.

 

"Don't fear, pet," The taller and fairer woman purred, revealing an identical device.  "No truth serum for you.  That's much too old fashioned for us. This is the Twentieth Century after all.  We've got something that's much better ‑ seam rippers."

               

There was really nowhere Illya could escape to, not in his present state, except for in his mind and he retreated there, feeling a small sense of Securities as the inseams of his pants fell victim to the seam rippers' cutting edges.

 

When they had finished, the pants hung loosely from their sole support, the waistband.

 

"Now, that should give us room to work."  Both women started to strip off their jumpsuits, revealing a flagrant disregard for underwear. 

               

Oh, Lord," Illya muttered.  "Why didn't I listen to my father?  He wanted me to be a teacher in Kiev."  He had no idea what these women had in store for him, but one thing was certain.  It wasn’t going to end pleasantly for him.  Naked women always got him into trouble.

               

He cringed involuntarily at the feeling of a cool hand against his stomach, turning his head away at the touch of lips to his.  The lips traveled downwards, finding the hollow of his throat, licking at his Adams apple.  Another tongue applied itself to first one nipple and then the other.  Illya feverishly tried to imagine himself a thousand miles from here.

 

 "There, pet, this won't hurt a bit," a voice he recognized as Monica's whispered.  "I think you'll find this quite exhilarating.  Perhaps you’ll even overcome yourself."  Her hands traveled up his thighs, the fingernails dragging lightly, leaving goose bumps in their trail.

 

Illya was panting now, not from excitement, but from the sheer exhaustion of trying to keep from responding.  A tongue licked at his stomach as hands moved closer and closer to his groin, which was blatantly ignoring every message Illya frantically sent down.  His penis was quite happy with the attention wandering in its direction and when first one and then another tongue was suddenly running up and down its length, Illya slammed his head back against the wood of the rack.  He hoped the pain would dissuade it, but no chance.  Although there was a chance that it was the hit to his head and not his engorged penis that was making him light headed at the moment.

 

“Now that’s what we want to see.”  Chris nuzzled his balls, rubbing her cheek against them.

 

“Mmm.”  Monica’s mouth was much too full to do more than that and the vibration made Illya groan.

 

“But what would you say to adding a bit of seasoning to the mix?”  Chris’s hands were trailing around his hips to caress his ass,

 

Illya managed to open his eyes in time to see Monica opening a bottle of something that looked like a lubricant.

 

“I think he's just about ready, Chris, what do you think?"

 

Chris smiled and reached in between the remnants of the satin material to run a finger down the crease in Illya's ass, a finger just pausing to toy with him before pushing into his body.   "Oh, I'd say he's quite ready."

 

 Monica poured a pale, strongly peppermint‑scented liquid into the palm of Chris's hand and she began a slow massage of Illya's genitals. He winced as the liquid oozed between her fingers and down his legs, reminding him of semen. "Do you know what this is, pet?" whispered Chris.

 

 "No, I haven't given it much thought."  Illya said, through gritted teeth, his voice strained with emotion, as he tried to ignore the sensations cascading through his nervous system.  If he thought things were hot before, he was mistaken.  He shut his eyes against the searing burning sensation of his body.

               

"It's Oil of Spearmint, Mr. Kuryakin," supplied Monica. "You may be wondering why we're doing this.  It’s to make you talk."

 

 "I doubt it."  Illya whispered through his gritted teeth.

 

 "Well, maybe not talk, but how about screaming?”

 

 

 

Napoleon Solo crept quietly through the corridors backstage.  At best, he'd have twenty minutes to get out before his little pyrotechnics were discovered.

 

 At the sound of Sansoval's voice, Napoleon glanced around nervously, finally taking refuge within a closet.  She was obviously in a hurry, no doubt to get back to him,

 

"Samuel, put an ad in the paper tomorrow morning.  We are going to need a new waiter, preferably a blond.  Our new hire is no longer with us."

 

"Already?" the responding reply was muffled through the door.  "He sure didn't stick around long."

 

"Some are like that.  It’s not even worth training them these days."

 

 Napoleon stood there for a long moment, unsure of his next move.  He'd like to help Illya, but his duty called for him to return to Sansoval and keep the ball in motion there.  Duty had to come first; Napoleon rose wearily to his feet. Cautiously, he peeked out the door and when it was apparent that the coast was clear, he slipped back into the hallway and began to readjust his tux's jacket.  He had taken only a few steps before a low guttural groan froze him.

               

 It was Illya - there was no arguing that.  Duty temporarily took a back seat to loyalty. Napoleon crept up to a door and cracked it open.  A second groan sent him edging carefully down the stairs.  For the Russian to be giving that sort of voice to his pain, the torture must be intense.  He’d seen Illya bear pain that would cripple most men and never make a sound.

 

Napoleon's mouth dropped open at the sight of the naked women and what they were doing.  Judging from the way Illya’s shoulders knotted and heaved and the way his arms strained at the ropes that bound him, however, it was obvious that he was not enjoying any of it.  The Russian was in too much pain to be getting any sort of pleasure from what the women were doing to him.  His head thrashed at the tender ministrations of the women.  He sobbed and beat his head repeatedly back against the wood of the frame he was shackled to.

               

Napoleon reached for his gun and removed the clip of bullets, replacing them with tranquilizing darts instead. Smoothly, quickly, but unhurriedly, Napoleon removed his eye patch, took aim and fired.

               

The first woman was down before the other could even voice surprise.  Napoleon took her out with as little flair as possible and rushed down the stairs and into the room.

 

"Illya, what's wrong?"  Napoleon was confused.  From all appearances the Russian looked fine, with the exception of one of the more impressive erections he'd ever seen.

 

"Water."  The man's head was bent, tears streaming from his eyes, his breathing labored.

 

"Right."  Napoleon found a full pail  and turned back. "Where?"

 

"Anywhere!"  Illya ordered through clenched teeth.

 

The bucket of cold water caught Illya full in the groin and he gasped in surprise.  Still, he seemed to be relaxing and Napoleon ignored him for a moment to search for a knife.  He finally found one in a crumpled jumpsuit pocket.

 

Napoleon cut the Russian's ankles free and then his wrists, providing support as he lowered the Russian to his knees.

 

"Illya," Napoleon's tone was concerned.  "Are you okay?"

 

The blond head bobbed.  “Better now, thanks."

 

 "What happened," Napoleon asked and then trailed off.  "And don’t get me wrong, but why do you smell minty fresh?"

 

 "Oil of Spearmint.  Those lovely young ladies over there dumped a bunch of it down my pants."

 

 "Should I ask why?"

 

"Napoleon, you’re not going to tell me that you never put liniment into a annoying jock’s athletic cup in school.”

 

“Well, now that you mention it, no, I never did.  Why?”

 

“The active ingredient in most liniments is Oil of Spearmint.  That’s what causes the sensation of warmth when you rub it in.  It tends to react very enthusiastically on one's more...sensitive areas, Napoleon"

 

"Oh?" Napoleon questioned, then the hazel eyes widened with understanding.  "Oh…"

 

"Yes, definitely oh."

 

"Any it was keeping you from… so they could… ouch.  So, how come you're all right now?"

 

“It’s at its worst when you’re aroused.”  Illya shifted, grimacing slightly.  “Right now, it’s merely… uncomfortable.

                               

Napoleon glanced down at the two unconscious forms.  “Listen, I've got to get back to Madam Sansoval before I'm missed.  Will you be all right if I leave you?"

 

"With Sansoval as aroused as she is?  You're ten minutes too late.  I’m fine – go!"

 

Napoleon turned to leave and then added, "I also found a large stack of Rolm stock, with a note to turn them over to T Central.  I left a little note of my own.  It should start to burn very soon."

 

 "Good.  I discovered some of their hardware down here ‑ a rather massive computer.  I was in the process of reading the files when I was interrupted."

 

"These two are going to sleep for about an hour so that should give you plenty of time to finish your job and take off.  I don't want to be around when things get hot."

 

 "Understandable. As soon as I find some decent clothes, I'll tackle it."  At Napoleon's baleful look, Illya continued. "I certainly can't go around like this.  One strong breeze and I’ll ruin a perfectly good reputation."

 

 "There's a wardrobe closet upstairs a couple of doors on the left.  I hid in it while looking for you.  But hurry, Illya, hurry, we don't have much time."

 

 

 Napoleon Solo was walking casually to the exit when a hand caught his arm.

 

 "Napoleon?"

 

 He turned to face Madam Sansoval, feeling a twinge of remorse at the venerability in her gray eyes.

 

 "Where are you going?  The evening was just starting."

               

 "Yes, well, like you, I've suddenly remembered a previous engagement of my own that I must attend to."

 

"You're angry that I had to take care of an unavoidable circumstance.  Napoleon, I swear it wasn't another man."

               

"I'm sure not, good lady."  Napoleon took her hand and brushed his lips against it.  "You are a business woman and you must do your job, just as I, regrettably, must do mine."

 

 A shout of "Fire!" interrupted him.

 

 "There's a fire in your office, Madam!"  A woman ran up to her and then stopped in surprise.  "Napoleon Solo!  What the hell are you doing here?"  A gun appeared in her hand and pointed towards Napoleon's midsection.

 

Napoleon smiled at her, waggling his fingers.  "Hello, Edith, how's everything in London?"

 

"You know this man?"  Sansoval was clearly divided between her desire to get to the office and the woman's knowledge.

               

"Top man of UNCLE?  You bet I do, most field agents do."  She reached over and pulled off the eye patch Napoleon had replaced after leaving Illya. "Why do I suspect that this is all your doing, Napoleon?"

  

 "Not entirely."  Napoleon smiled at the gun pointed at his stomach, just as the floor of the building shook. “I suspect Illya is up to things of his own.  You know how he loves to make things go boom.” Sansoval gave a strangled cry, abandoning them for her office.

 

 

 

 Illya Kuryakin peered out from behind the door jamb to be sure of the hall's safety.  The outfit he currently wore wasn't a vast improvement over the satin pants, but it wasn't quite as... breezy. The black leather jumpsuit was, at least, not quite as snug as his previous outfit. That gave him a little more confidence as he jogged back towards the basement and down the stairs.

 

He pulled the studded collar from his neck and began to fiddle with the buckle.  The explosive would start a chain reaction, but he wanted to get the ball rolling with as big a bang as possible, just in case Napoleon needed a diversion of some sort.  There hadn’t been any time to read the files, but he was content that if UNCLE didn’t have them, neither did THRUSH.

 

Finally settling on an appropriate spot, he wove the collar through a service access handle and pulled a thread loose from the inside of the leather.  A spark crackled and he spun, heading for the nearest exit he could find, in this case a basement window.  He broke the glass, setting off a burglar alarm as he did so.  Oh well, it was inevitable that the police would become involved sooner or later.

 

He crawled out onto the wet pavement of the alley and headed towards the protection of some nearby garbage cans.

 

The explosion blew out several windows and Illya buried his head in his arms to keep from getting hurt from flying glass and debris.  Once it was safe to move, he ran to the front of the building, but couldn't spot Napoleon in the escaping crowd.

 

Shaking his head in resignation, Illya began to push his way in against the panicking throng of men and women attempting to leave the place.   Clearing the doorway, he paused and shouted, "Napoleon!"

 

 At the voice, Edith's attention swayed momentarily and Napoleon expertly knocked the gun from her grasp, scooping up the fallen weapon gracefully.

 

“Now, Edith dear, why don't you leave and we'll take up this matter the next time I’m in London."

 

"The next time I see you, I'll kill you, Napoleon."  Edith disappeared into the smoke as Illya jogged up.

 

“Edith?” Illya asked.

 

“Edith.”

               

 "I thought I recognized that wiggle.  Napoleon, why did you let her go?"

 

"No real reason.  It just keeps the game interesting.  Think how annoyed she’s going to be the next time we run into her."

 

 Illya grunted and peered around the smoke‑filled room. "I'll never understand you.  Where’s Sansoval?"

 

"Her office." Napoleon took off,  running back into the building, but stopped short as a second blast rocked the floor, dropping them to their knees.  Around them, beams began to give way; plaster and parts of the ceiling fell, bouncing off the two men as they leapt for cover beneath a table.

 

"How much explosive did you use?" Napoleon asked, waving a hand in front of him to clear the air of the smoke and dust.

 

"Too much, obviously."  Illya got to his feet and offered Napoleon a hand up.  Staggering through the debris, Napoleon lead the way towards Sansoval's office, stopping short at the sight of a pair of legs protruding from beneath a fallen beam.

 

Illya pushed Napoleon aside and then paused at the sight.  "Napoleon, I'm sorry."

 

"’Non‑cooperation with evil is as much a duty as cooperation with good.’"

 

"Mohandas Gandhi," Illya identified the quote. "Perhaps Edmund Blake said it better.  ‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.’  Let's go."

 

 

 

Napoleon Solo folded his paper and laid it down on the table when he caught sight of his partner from across the cafeteria.  He waved the man over and pushed out a chair.

               

Illya crossed the floor gingerly to Napoleon.

 

“I thought I'd find you here."

 

 "Did you...um...de‑spearmint yourself?"

 

"Would you believe vinegar and baking soda?"  Illya said, still standing.  "Instead of a Lifesaver, now I smell like a dill pickle."

 

"Could have been worse," Napoleon offered.  "At least, it didn't have to wear off.  That could put a strain on a man's social life.  Or anti‑social life, in your case."

 

"I would speak for myself, old friend."  He stiffened as someone appeared in the doorway and Napoleon looked, only to recognize the woman as the rather stern-looking Section 8 woman he had previously encountered. "You know what they say about the quiet types."  He winked at Napoleon and walked to the woman, casually draping an arm over her shoulders as they turned to the exit.

 

 Napoleon watched as the woman reached down to give Illya an affection pat on his butt and shook his head.  "I do indeed, my friend, I do, indeed."  And he returned to his paper.

 

               

 


End file.
